I love Kindle Unlimited, and I love discovering new poets, but I’ve had trouble searching poetry on Kindle Unlimited, which is why I created Unlimited Poetry, a group promo that runs all February. It’s great way to find new poets on Kindle Unlimited. Check it out to find your next read, or, if you happen to be a fellow poet, get in touch so we can get your book up here too.
From Love Songs for the Sun, out November 20th.
- Anyway, here’s a book I wrote. No, I didn’t self-publish because I was rejected by real publishers, I self-published because I’m too impatient and anxiety-ridden to write query letters in the first place.
- Anyway, here’s a book I wrote. I know, it’s audacious that I’d just go and write a book, then publish it without any authority telling me it was good enough. And then to announce it, like it’s not some dirty little secret? The scandal. Who do I think I am, anyway? Don’t I know writing is serious business?
- Anyway, here’s a book I wrote. I know the book you’ve been thinking about writing would be much better, but it doesn’t exist, does it? It must be very frustrating, me announcing a clearly inferior work, while your masterpiece is still only 10 pages long.
- Anyway, here’s a book I wrote. It’s written in the pompous yet jaded style of the Next Great American Novel, but of course it can’t be that because I’m a woman.
- Anyway, here’s a book I wrote. Yes, it’s just an ebook. No, it’s not a “real book.” Yes, a physical copy would be ideal, but I know how well this book is (not) going to sell. An ego boost just isn’t worth the hundred extra dollars it would cost to format paperbacks.
- Anyway, here’s a book I wrote. Don’t worry, it’s the most literary thing I intend to write anytime soon. All the other books I’ve written so far are distinctly genre. Much less tragic and much more potentially lucrative. It’s not very professional of me, but I just couldn’t leave this one alone without publishing it. But if I cared about being professional I wouldn’t be posting this, would I?
- Anyway, here’s a book I wrote. I know you’re concerned about my good name, but names are cheap on the internet, and most of you probably already think I’m a trainwreck anyway.
- Anyway, here’s a book I wrote. If you hate me, you should probably buy it. Pull it up on your phone during happy hour and read sections of it in a mocking tone to your friends. “We’ll be right back, we’re going to get more drinks,” they’ll say, interrupting a particularly cringe-worthy scene. “What’s up with her today?” you’ll hear them whisper to each other as they walk away. “She’s never mentioned this girl before, why is she so invested?”
- Anyway, here’s a book I wrote. It might be one gigantic shaggy dog story. Read it and find out!
- Anyway, here’s a book I wrote. It was either publish this or write detailed character studies of every single creepy man I’ve ever met, so there are some predatory fuckers who should be pretty grateful for this book. Just kidding, I’m still totally going to write those character studies at some point.
- Anyway, here’s a book I wrote. And if you want to play the “list the ways self-publishing in general and this book specifically are bad ideas” you are going to lose, because I can list way more of them than you. So don’t try, because that would just be embarrassing for you. Not for me. I no longer feel embarrassment.
- Anyway, here’s a book I wrote. Now that I’m an author I’m even more vicious when people poke at my insecurities, so tread carefully.
- Anyway, here’s a book I wrote. It’s okay. Of the 1,200 something books I’ve read it’s solidly in the middle.
- Anyway, here’s a book I wrote: x
Her fingernails snip the stems of daisies and dandelions as she dreams of rings. Another flower crown, another fairy ring, another circle of friends, another playground game. “What if we were a spaceship?” she asks the other kids. “I saw in a show they can make them this way. We could spin through space.” The grass isn’t green, but these flowers are hardy things. If they can survive the playground, surely they could survive space.
Her parents watch early morning shows. More murders, more police killing children. The suburbs are vast and strangers are frightening, so they drive her to school every morning. In class she practices hiding in case of a mass shooting. Under her desk some former student drew a flower. Another drew a rocket. She traces over them with her own pencil carefully.
What if I could grow spaceships? she thinks. While the teacher talks about closing blinds and escape routes, she draws a tree around the rocket, making it into something living. “What do bullets do to trees?” she asks, hand raised. “If we had school in trees would we be safe? What if we wore trees, if they grew around us like clothing? Could trees be spacesuits?”
She loves what thrives despite everything. Not her momma’s orchids and lilies, but weeds growing unwanted in the driveway. She makes a chain of dandelions grown entirely from concrete. She isn’t sure what it means, but wears them as a crown above her pigtails long after they fade. They are a force field, unlike her age. She feels, even this early, the weight of history. An inheritance of violence and greed, already turning against her. She knows, in her soft child way, that evil things loom heavy over her family, but her dandelions weave golden armor around her, and she walks through a world capable of healing.
Everywhere, growing things.
“What if?” she asks. She wants to know what space is. What it’s made of. What grows there. If it might be safer than here. Sometimes teachers know the answers. Sometimes they just want her to stop questioning.
She doesn’t. She asks librarians, asks her phone, asks everyone she meets. The dandelions taught her all about thriving. About wiggling into places no one wants you to be, or dreaming up schemes no one wants you to think. Eventually, like them, she’ll get what she needs.
“A torus spaceship is like a somersault,” she tells her friends. “The outside is moving, but inside you feel safe.” They tumble down a grassy hill and into space.